


Doing the Weird Stuff

by JacquelineHyde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Married Sex, Modern AU, Roleplay, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacquelineHyde/pseuds/JacquelineHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Catelyn gets new reading glasses, and Ned wholeheartedly approves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing the Weird Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for my gross overuse of the phrase “the weird stuff,” but I rewatched Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog recently, and it is the funniest thing in the world to me right now.

All things considered, Catelyn should probably count herself lucky that she's avoided this crap for the first thirty-nine years of her life.

But perfect vision is sort of a Tully family tradition, and she hates that it's ending with her.

She suspects that Ned thinks her vehement avoidance of the optometrist is rooted in concern for her appearance, but it's _not_. She just really, really hates wearing glasses: hates the way they fog up in rain or heat, hates the painful red marks across her nose that have kept her from even sunglasses for most of her adult life, opting to squint into the sun's glare over that far greater discomfort, and she thinks it's damned unfair that her choices are headaches from eye strain, or headaches from having unyielding plastic or metal digging in behind her ears.

The headaches _have_ become a problem. It was a particularly bad one after hours of poring over midterm papers that led to the damned appointment in the first place. Robb had happened upon her, nearly unable to lift her head from the desk, and run immediately for the Advil, only to return with Ned hot on his heels, both wearing startlingly identical expressions of deep concern. She'd tried to explain that calling right then and there for an appointment would be little use, as most optometrists would likely not be open at ten at night, which had resulted in one confused eye doctor coming into work the next morning to a frantic voice mail from her exceedingly worried husband.

But at least the appointment is over, and with it the nightmare of choosing from a dizzying variety of frames. She has them now, and she'll make the most of them. It _is_ nice, she admits grudgingly as she turns her attention to the evening's work, to read like a normal person instead of mashing her face right up against the paper.

When she hears the door of their shared home office open and familiar footfalls approaching, she instinctively snatches the glasses off, and Ned catches her hand to stop her before she can tuck them into the little case the optometrist gave her.

“Let me see them,” he orders.

Biting her lip against a smile, she slides them back on, and waits for his gentle, well-meaning assurances that she's _still beautiful._

When she meets his eyes so that he can have the full effect, the intensity in his gaze, moving slowly over her face, takes her by surprise.

“You _like_ them?” She sounds more incredulous than she intended, and he nods absently, still clearly drinking in every detail.

“They're good.”

His eyes move down over her body and back up again, and she grins. She's not sure if it was a coincidence or an unconscious decision that made her pick out one of his favourite outfits today, a tweed pencil skirt, frilly blouse and shapeless cardigan combination that she can never understand why he likes so much, but it seems like these bloody glasses were the missing piece required to take the ensemble from something that he generally enjoys taking off her to...well. Right now, he's looking at her like he desperately _wants_ to take it off – _rip_ it off – but can't seem to stop staring long enough to do it.

“I'm glad you approve,” she starts to say, at the same time that he blurts out, “I'm here about an overdue library book, ma'am.”

She stares blankly.

“An overdue--” As it dawns on her what he's trying to suggest, she gives a bark of laughter, because their only experience with any sort of roleplay is supplying the snacks when Bran has the Reed kids over for a tabletop session.

A look of hurt flashes briefly over his face, and she winces, possessed of the strong desire to kick herself.

It's extremely rare for Ned to suggest something that _he_ would like to incorporate into their love life; most of the time, if they try anything new, it's at her instigation.

It isn't that her husband is timid in bed – far from it – and he's always game to try anything that her imagination can dream up.

But for all that, he hardly ever suggests anything himself, and she's pretty sure she has Brandon to thank for that.

Ninety percent of her experience with everything but the most mild of kink came in the last few months of her failed relationship with Brandon Stark. It became painfully clear that his harmless flirting with every pretty girl in the room went well beyond that in a lot of cases, but it hadn't been nearly as easy as her well-intentioned friends and family had seemed to believe to _just dump him_.

Idiotic as the logic seems now, she had reasoned that if he was looking elsewhere, it was simply out of boredom, and that was easily enough remedied with a little extra effort, and a quick look through the magazines and videos that he denied owning for some ideas. At first, it had seemed to work, and his reaction of stunned delight at her new repertoire had reconciled her to a little embarrassment.

But if the acts themselves – and the amateur porn dialogue that he seemed to particularly enjoy with them – had been embarrassing, finding out that his friends, his brother, his brother's friends, and anyone else within earshot was experiencing their activities second hand in the form of extremely detailed drunken stories, had made her skin crawl and stomach churn with humiliation. The immediate and vehement end that she had brought to the relationship had far more to do with his inability to keep their private life _private_ than the revelation that the other women had never entirely vanished from the picture.

When she'd first started dating Ned about six months later, things had been difficult at first. She's pretty sure that Ned harboured the fear a lot longer than he'd let on that she was dating him primarily for his resemblance to Brandon, and a part of her wondered if his fascination had more to do with Brandon's stories about the things she'd done to keep his interest than any personal merits on her part.

Of course, they'd neglected to actually _talk_ about any of this for several more months, until a night out with Ned's best friend Robert and his girlfriend of the hour. After downing enough liquor to kill an average sized elephant, Robert had begun grilling Ned about whether or not he'd experienced any of the stories Brandon had talked about firsthand, and taking Ned's angry refusal to answer as evidence that he had not.

 _C'mon, Cat, Ned's a good guy, he deserves some fun_ , he'd cajoled with a bleary-eyed reproachful gaze. _You'll obviously do the weird stuff, so why are you holding out on him?_

Ned had gone immediately from angry to livid, and said a few things that might well have ended the friendship, had Robert been in any condition to comprehend them, let alone remember them the next day.

The ride home that night had been oppressively silent, Ned fuming while she had brooded in the passenger seat.

Her good intentions to just forget about it, tuck it away to become just another thing they didn't talk about, had lasted until she'd just begun to drop off to sleep, lulled that way by the warmth of his body and several glasses of wine at the bar.

“Ned?” she'd murmured sleepily. “Does Robert have a point? Would you enjoy this more if I did the weird stuff?”

He'd sat up so suddenly that she'd nearly been thrown off, grabbing clumsily for his shoulders with a startled yelp.

“Cat!” he'd admonished, alarm in his voice. “No, of course not! Robert's never had a point in his life, you know that.” His eyes had flicked away, and she knew that he was gathering his thoughts and trying to form them into coherent words. “I enjoy it when you're confident and happy. You've never seen yourself when you're comfortable enough to get really caught up in the moment, so I understand if you don't know how hot it is, but believe me, I'm looking forward to seeing it for the rest of our lives.” He cupped her face in both large hands. “I never want you to do something you don't enjoy, just because you think I want it. If it doesn't work for both of us, it doesn't work for either of us.”

She can remember grinning like an idiot, and climbing into his lap to wrap her arms around his middle and bury her face against the side of his neck. He'd cleared his throat nervously, and she'd peeked up with one drowsy eye.

“Would...would _you_ enjoy it more if I enjoyed the weird stuff?”

She'd laughed, and in honour of the fact that he'd just overcome his discomfort with actually _talking_ , using _words_ , she'd answered him in the actions that he generally favoured, shoving him to his back and elaborately demonstrating that she already enjoyed their usual routine, completely free of the weird stuff, thank-you-very-much.

Of course, over the years, as they'd come to know each other better, and trust that either one would absolutely speak up if a suggestion they disliked came up, the very mildest of the weird stuff had crept into the bedroom with them. But she's pretty sure that the last time _he_ suggested anything had been the night that he bought that silly toy, stashed it in the freezer sometime during the day (to this day she can only _desperately_ hope that he'd hid it well from young eyes seeking ice cream), and used it to fuck her while he sucked and lapped at her clit.

On the extremely rare occasions that he _has_ come up with an idea, it's always been something to make the night special for _her._ She can't recall if he's _ever_ suggested something simply because he wanted it.

The realization makes her stomach lurch with guilt, and before the faint ridiculousness of the situation can draw a nervous giggle from her and make things worse, she peers at him over the tops of her glasses. It helps a little, that his eyes immediately light up.

“I see. And can we expect to have it _back_ sometime soon?”

“No,” he replies, narrowing his eyes in exaggerated defiance and leaning in close, bracing himself with an arm on either side of her, gripping the edge of the desk. “I didn't like the ending, so I threw it out the window on the King's Landing overpass. What are you going to do about it?”

She reaches behind her, pulls out the top drawer, feeling around until her fingers close around a wooden ruler. His expression is somewhere between startled and excited when she smacks her palm and eyes him sternly.

“Well, Mr. Stark, I think I would be remiss in my duty to this organization if I didn't take it out of your ass.” She pokes him in the chest with the ruler until he stops crowding her and moves back. “Pull down your pants and bend over the desk.”

He obeys immediately, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, and she sprints to the door and locks it because oh _God_ , this is not something they need the kids to wander in on.

By the time she returns, he's waiting for her as she instructed, and she takes a moment to admire the view. Only the desire to keep character, to make this as good as possible for him, keeps her from the squeezing and kneading she'd _like_ to be doing.

Instead, she picks up the ruler again and traces the taut, muscled curve of his ass with the tip.

“I think forty should suffice. What do you think, Mr. Stark?”

He casts an alarmed look over his shoulder.

“You don't think that's a little excessive?”

“Not particularly,” she shrugs. “Ten for losing the book, fifteen for doing it purposely, and fifteen for gloating about it.” When he continues to eye her warily, she prompts gently, “What do you think?”

The corner of his mouth twitches up briefly.

"Sounds fair.”

“Or,” she continues as something about _safe words_ floats from some distant corners of her memory, “if you promise me that you won't do it again, we can stop right away.”

His slight smile widens, setting to rest her concerns that he's actually uncomfortable with this.

“I'm afraid I can't make that promise, ma'am. I might run into another book with a really terrible ending.”

Catching herself before she can burst out laughing, she delivers a series of slow, deliberate swats with the ruler instead, keeping them light and trying to avoid hitting the same place more than once. She's finding herself unexpectedly transfixed with the bright, warm pink left behind by the ruler, and just as transfixed as she expected with the way he's pushing back into each measured slap.

At twenty, it starts feeling a little awkward, so she leans over him, pressing close against his back, and murmurs into his ear,

“Is this teaching you anything at all about the importance of treating other people's belongings with respect?”

“No, but I might think twice about turning myself in next time.”

“I suppose it's a start,” she muses. “Twenty more. Count them with me.”

As they number the gentle swats of the ruler together, Ned's voice becomes lost amid his harsh gasps, and by five, he's stopped altogether.

“Mr. Stark?” she prompts, halting.

“I promise I won't do it again,” he grits out, and immediately, she drops the ruler.

“Ned?” She touches his shoulder lightly. “Are you--”

He surges up and around to face her, catching her by the wrist, his eyes and his rapid breaths hot on her face.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Cat,” he says, somewhere between an awed whisper and a snarl, his other hand threading into he hair to grip the back of her head almost painfully tight.

He hauls her in for a bruising kiss, and as their mouths and tongues slide wetly together, he maneuvers them both around and lifts her, dropping her unceremoniously on the desk.

She laughs breathlessly.

“Can I assume that I did _not_ hurt you, then?”

He looks amused.

“No, Cat, you didn't hurt me. Damn near made me come in my lack of pants, but all that hurt was my pride.” He brushes the loose strands of hair from her face and kisses her deeply again. “Should I be worried, that you're so good at this?”

“Only if you think you can't handle it.” She tries for flirty, but feels uncomfortably as though _creepy_ or _awkward_ is the more accurate adjective here.

His loud bark of laughter once again sets her concerns to rest, and he moves to shove her skirt up as well as he can when she's sitting on it. Sliding off the table, she reaches for the zipper, and he catches her hand again.

“Don't even think about it,” he growls, instead shoving it up around her hips and catching the waistband of her nylons and panties. He slides the flimsy garments down her legs, and she obediently kicks them aside as he pulls her blouse out from her skirt and tears at the buttons.

When she reaches for her glasses to tuck them safely away, he catches her hand again, and asks almost sheepishly,

“Are—are they uncomfortable?”

“No, they're fine,” she replies with a reassuring smile, threading her hand through his hair instead.

She's not entirely used to them yet, and her head is beginning to ache a bit as her eyes adjust, but the thought of enduring this small discomfort for his enjoyment sends a thrill through her that she can _never_ tell him about, because she knows he'd be horrified.

As it is, he looks anything but horrified, stepping back to let his eyes rove over her disarrayed clothes before he pushes her firmly to lie back on the desk and grips her thighs to pull her legs tight around his waist.

They must look a sight, his pants and underwear around his knees and her skirt shoved up to her hips with nothing underneath, her blouse hanging open, but as the head of his cock teases over her slick folds, she really couldn't care less, and pushes up against him until he slips easily inside.

As he begins to thrust slowly, she reaches up to grip the edge of the desk with one hand to keep her head from jolting against the wooden surface, the other finding her breast and teasing at the hardened nipple through lace.

His hands tighten at her hips as he drags her rhythmically closer to meet his thrusts as they pick up speed, and her low groan is for his grimace of pleasure as much as for the stretch and burn of her muscles around him. Decisively, she grabs his hand and positions it over the slick bud, and he picks up on the _rather_ broad hint immediately, fingers moving in light, quick circles until she's thrashing against him, waves of bliss rendering her helpless to do anything else.

Desperately, he drags her upright against him, and when her glasses slide off, she knocks them impatiently away and grinds against his body and the aching length inside of her.

It's not long before she feels him swell and spurt inside her, and they fall back against the desk together, his hand landing heavily just to the left of her head.

They both freeze at the unmistakable crunch of breaking plastic, and scramble upright together to investigate.

At the sight of her glasses – or rather, the mangled, shattered wreck of her _former_ glasses – she bursts out laughing. She catches sight of his crestfallen expression, like he's just lost his new best friend, and nearly falls of the desk.

“Well, I had them for a good six hours,” she gasps when she can even begin to speak again, wiping away tears of mirth.

“Oh, Cat, I'm sorry.” He hangs his head.

“I wonder what I'll tell the optometrist,” she muses aloud, giggling softly when a hint of a smile quirks his mouth.

“Just tell him the truth," he sighs, resting his head in his hand. "Your husband broke them like a clumsy oaf.”

She nods thoughtfully.

“I might leave out the specifics. But Ned,” she continues, fixing him with her very best no-nonsense stare, “You'd better believe that you're coming withe me to help me pick out a new pair.

His expression lights up like a small child promised his weight in candy, and she laughs again.

She just might get to like this whole _glasses_ thing.

 


End file.
